If I Ran The Zoo And Other Stories
by 1shot
Summary: A short anthology of Castiel-centric snippets. Also starring Sam, Dean, and Chuck. We got your zombie animals, your falling angels, and your croatverse, right here. Spoilers to 5.13. Rating for language, violence, nonspecific sexual imagery.
1. If I Ran The Zoo

A/N: These were all written for the Castiel comment!fic party over on Livejournal. Prompts are included here.

***

_Prompt 1: A semi-depowered Castiel does something badass using his wits/human level strength/rock salt to save Sam and Dean during a hunt gone FUBAR._

**If I Ran The Zoo**

"Where the_ fuck_ is our_ fucking_ angel?"

Dean spits blood, shakes his head, and lifts his rifle, pegging off another dead animal - Sam thinks this one is a wolf - as it comes lurching around the cage corner.

"It's been thirty seconds, Dean." Sam's response would be calmer if he weren't biting out every word. "Brace." A second later, he pulls the bandage tight and Dean utters something both incoherent and obscene. The gun's tip drops toward the ground.

"Dean!"

The rifle jerks up, fires again, sends the remnants of some kind of monkey flying back toward a faux stone wall. 'JUNGLE CATS --' says the helpful sign, just next to the smear of the corpse, and Sam hears a strangled and unpleasant growl come from somewhere closer than he would like.

"Forty-five seconds," grits Dean. "Did he stop for a fucking burger?"

Sam picks the handgun up from the ground, checking the chamber again like bullets will have magically appeared. "Dean," he says, and Dean answers, "Last two."

Then a black and hairy shape flies ululating through the air, leaping from the top of the lemur cage (Sam knows because there is a sign -- 'LEMURS' -- and also because a lemur tried to claw out his eye). The rifle barks twice; the hairy thing flinches, writhes, arches overhead and vanishes somewhere past the fake log cabin to the right.

Dean cocks the now-useless rifle out of habit, then sags back against the black bars behind him. "Goddamnit, Cas."

Sam shoves the empty .45 back into his waistband, braces his brother with one hand, and checks his phone. There are no messages.

The jungle cat roar is closer. Sam draws his knife.

"So," says Dean, "You think they'll resurrect us?"

Something once a snake comes around the corner, low and slithering, rotting scales scraping the pavement. It's longer than Sam, and it doesn't have eyes anymore. It oozes over the shattered wolf without pause.

Behind it follows -- "What the hell is that?"

"Um."

"Seriously, what the fuck."

"Platypus?"

"You are _kidd_ --"

Then comes the roaring -- not of the lions, but of the Impala. Dean jerks his head up, rifle reversed in his hands -- the butt of it ready for the snake, for all the good it will do.

The snake scrapes closer, undulating slowly, blind sockets fixed on Sam. The thing that may or may not be a platypus wriggles and rolls.

"Oh, baby," murmurs Dean, like prayer, and the gorilla yelping from somewhere behind them is drowned out by the roar of the Impala's engine, the shriek of tires against asphalt as the car slides to a stop in the middle of the tourist trail, monkey entrails and littered McDonald's cups crushed beneath.

Between the Winchesters and safety, the snake hisses, rearing back its giant head. Sam shoves an arm around his brother's ribs, hefting half of Dean's weight. "You run?"

"Try."

They take two stumbling steps and the snake thing is suddenly tall and broad and what big teeth it has and the actually-probably-not-a-platypus chitters and hurls itself forward --

Castiel's sword slices the furry thing in half, blade chinging into pavement and leaving cleaved bone and putrid flesh in pieces before the angel steps forward, reversing the weapon's smooth arc and carving it straight toward the snake. The thing is faster than it looks, scales whipping across the ground; it jerks back, then darts in, jaws extended --

"Cas!"

-- and the shotgun in Castiel's left hand comes up, as fast as the reptile. The sharp report sends rock salt slamming into the creature's throat, sends chunks of it splattering back against the cage and across the ground and -- all over Sam's shoes, but Sam is not complaining.

Dean has no such compunctions. "Did you _hot wire_ my _car_? I swear to fuck --"

"Your weapons," says Cas, coldly. He has snake remnants all over his coat, gore staining his white shirt; he has a bloody sword in one hand, and a gun in the other, and his eyes are tired and hard. "Your escape. Get in the car, Dean. The lions are close."

"Shit," says Sam, and he drags his brother through blood and slime and litter, shoving Dean toward the driver's side door.

Something howls.

Sam dives toward the trunk of the car, and scrambles for the guns.


	2. Early Morning Rain

_Prompt 2: Song prompt: "Early Morning Rain." I just have this image of de-powered Castiel, stuck on the ground unable to fly, watching the planes with envy. Definitely in need of schmoop._

**Early Morning Rain**

"We never learn our damn lesson about airports," mutters Dean, duffle in hand as he schleps toward the Impala. He ducks his head against the rain, raising his free hand as though it'll offer any sort of protection at all.

Sam grunts, shutting the motel room door and jamming his hands in his pockets. It's too early, too grey, and he is sleepless and cold. The planes started at 6am and they haven't stopped, jet engines repeatedly screaming just overhead. Five hundred yards away, past the road and the chain link fence, a 747 streaks past and lifts into the air, shockingly loud, improbably weightless, steel swiftly rising.

Much closer, at the edge of the parking lot, Cas stands with his hands at his sides, his back to the Impala as he watches the plane. There are streaks of mud on the angel's coat, a ragged gash fluttering at the hem. Sam resolves to get Cas some other clothes sometime very soon.

Dean fusses in the trunk of the car, adjusting the layout of guns and bandages and holy oil, and Sam shivers against the chill of the rain. Water runs down the back of his neck, cold and unwelcome, as he trudges across the cracked pavement to Castiel's side.

"Hey," he says, and is ignored; Cas's chin is up, his gaze raised away from Sam, head tilting to stare after the flight as it departs. He is intent, unblinking -- fierce. It is much the same way he stares at Dean.

Dark crimson runs sluggishly down the angel's upper lip, and Sam sighs, shifting a hand to the pocket of his hoodie and one of the packets of kleenex that they're all carrying, these days.

"Hey," he says again, and holds out a tissue; this time Castiel glances down. The blue eyes flick to Sam -- _old_, Sam thinks, and _no, young_ -- before Cas's expression goes blankly resigned. He takes the kleenex without comment, pressing it to his nose.

"Take it easy," advises Sam. "What were you trying to --"

Cas looks at him again, and Sam sees something hollow and vicious in the way Castiel's lips thin. Cas is slight and bleeding and rumpled but Sam is abruptly the one who feels stupidly small.

He knows Cas doesn't mean it like that.

He doesn't finish his question.

"Come on," he says, instead. "We'll grab some coffee. Maybe, um... maybe you wanna try breakfast today."

Cas crumples the kleenex in his hand, tight, a smear of red on his fingers; he examines the stain like a puzzle, or a work of art. The water is soaking into the shoulders of his coat; his hair is damp and flat.

"Hello?" snaps Dean from the car, impatient. "Rain? Coffee. Pancakes. Let's _go_."

"Come on," offers Sam, again. "We'll... yeah. Let's just go."

The angel raises his eyes to the sky, and Sam doesn't know whether Cas is looking for God or just for the next transatlantic flight, but Sam reaches out anyway, touching his fingers to the trenchcoat's damp sleeve. He sets his palm against Cas's shoulder and keeps it there, lightly, while they walk back to the car.

Beneath his grip, the angel's bones seem worn and fragile. Sam presses his fingers tighter, and does not think of birds.


	3. Chitaqua Book Club

_Prompt 3: Cas and Chuck drink tea and discuss literature._

**In Which a Meeting of the Camp Chitaqua Book Club Comes to Order**

Being an ex-Prophet of the Lord doesn't net Chuck many privileges. He waits in line for the day's gruel like everyone else; he sleeps in a shitty cot; he's got holes in the elbows of his shirts; and he only gets first dibs on toilet paper because he's the guy in charge of supplies.

About the only thing he can claim is that -- as of three weeks ago, and the latest and loudest Winchester/angel debacle -- he's the only person in camp who doesn't get kicked out of Castiel's cabin.

He's pretty sure it's because he understands what it's like to get the shit kicked out of him by God. It could just be that he knows better living through chemicals.

He hasn't asked.

He just picks his timing carefully: not when Dean's in there, and they're plotting or yelling or drinking and the air is thin like a wire stretched taut. Not when the acolytes are in there, all young and stupid and hopeful, and Cas is grinning that skeleton grin all strung out like he is the wire, like the wire is about to break and everything that hangs on him will fall away, will fly into pieces.

No, Chuck waits until almost evening, when the cabin's quiet and there's been no motion all day. He sucks in a breath of the metallic air outside before he pushes through the rattle of the beaded curtain, because he knows the iron tang out there is infinitely better than the subtle reek that awaits: sex, sweat, incense, pot, something that he really hopes isn't urine.

"Man," he says, into the darkness, "you need to air this place out."

There's a pause before Cas mutters, "No one's making you stay," but Chuck is busy pulling open the shredding towels that currently double as curtains. Early evening light streams in; he slides the cracked window open, letting in a breeze.

"Prophet, said I -- thing of evil," mumbles Castiel in protest, but it's kind of muffled into his pillows.

"Poe was last week. And I want that back, by the way." Chuck turns to the wide bed, the mound of blankets; he sees only Cas's bare foot at the mattress edge, a pale calf and curling dark hairs before the leg vanishes just above the knobby knee.

The ex-angel is silent, so Chuck plunks himself down on the other side of the bed and scootches up until his back is against the wall. He sets two worn paperback books on his lap, and nudges a thermos at the blanket pile, tapping vaguely. "Here."

After a moment, Cas's hand snakes out, questing, and Chuck touches the thermos to searching fingers. "Darjeeling," he says, helpfully.

"Ngh." Still, Castiel takes it; the grasping hand closes around the warm metal, holds still as if considering, and then finally Cas turns over and slides himself up to a sitting position, emerging to where Chuck can see far too much of skinny arms and bare chest and --

"If you're not wearing anything, I really don't want to know about it. I'm already trying not to think about these sheets."

Cas pulls the worn flannel up an ungracious inch, then unscrews the thermos. It takes him a couple of tries. Chuck can't get a really good look, but he has the impression Cas's eyes are too blue, pupils gone nearly missing.

"How stoned are you? Like, on a scale of one to ten."

Cas tilts his head back, taking a swallow of the tea that Chuck never makes too hot. "Five."

"Yeah, okay." Chuck sits and waits, silent, while Cas drinks, and the light from outside fades to something that might have been sunset in the days when they still had sun. Chuck wipes his palm on the knee of his dirty jeans.

Cas doesn't say anything, and Chuck doesn't get kicked out, so while they still have some light left Chuck says, "Anyway, truck came in yesterday; found some Tom Clancy, and, uh... something about the Franklin Expedition."

"Dean's back?"

"Yeah. Yesterday."

Cas lets his gaze go half-hooded, leaning his head back, and Chuck stares at the white line of Cas's throat and wonders if he's timed it wrong today. But Cas screws the lid back on the thermos, then, and reaches to exchange tea for paperpack, peering down at it. He holds the book at arm's length, then brings it to just in front of his nose, and Chuck says, "You all right?"

"Maybe seven," confesses Cas, and he's slurring a bit at the edges, but he seems satisfied when the book's about four inches from his face. "Hmmm -- 'a story of horrific starvation, scurvy, and cannibalism'."

Chuck snorts. "At least it's not _The Da Vinci Code_. Which -- what'd you think of the Brown pile?"

"Inaccurate and painfully repetitive."

"Yeah." Chuck opens the thermos, takes a sip. The tea is warm and strong; it's also acrid, and tastes a little of mold, but he's starting to not notice anymore. "Take what we can get, though."

Cas flips through the first few pages of the Clancy, but he frowns at the little black letters; he has them an inch away from his face when Chuck says, "Oh, hey, no, it's actually getting dark."

"Oh."

"Listen." Chuck curls his hands around the thermos. "There's a kid in the infirmary, pretty broken up. Just bones, but we're running low on pain meds..."

Castiel goes very still, where he sits; the book is motionless in his hands.

Chuck bites at his lower lip while he waits, but he doesn't say anything else.

"Top drawer in the dresser. I think." Cas's rasp is toneless.

"Thanks, man."

"I want the Poe for now."

"Sure." Chuck slides off the bed, leaves rumpled covers in his wake; he eases open the crooked dresser drawer and sorts through the -- "Holy shit, Cas."

"The books are..." Cas trails off; he rubs his hand over his face, rough palm over rougher stubble.

"I see 'em," says Chuck, mildly. He nabs the top three paperbacks and pockets an orange bottle of pills. He shuts the drawer carefully, hearing the other bottles roll over cracked wood.

"Dean's back?"

"Yesterday."

When Chuck turns around, Cas is trying to read in the dark again.

"I'll just, um.... listen, you should...." Chuck shoves his hands in his pockets. Through the window, he can hear someone start screaming across camp. "I'll see you later, okay?"

Outside, Chuck takes a breath; the Apocalypse is still iron and sulfur, subtle in the back of his throat. "Dan Brown is better than nothing," he tells himself, and he glances down at the books in the crook of his arm and sighs.

"My kingdom for a fucking library."

Maybe they can go back to Shakespeare next.


	4. Genesis

**PLEASE NOTE THE RATING CHANGE: **This one is M for language, violence, sexual situations, implied character death. It's still gen. It's also bleak, folks.

_Prompt 4:_ _5x04verse. Cas survives. Lucifer finds him, and for some reason decides to keep him around._

**Genesis**

Castiel wakes higher than he has ever been in his life. He has a vague memory of pain, of claws cracking through his bones, of Risa's open, glassy eyes and the demons digging in his intestines.

Sometimes he hallucinates. He wonders if it was a vision; he can't tell the difference anymore.

He is floating. Brilliance tingles across his skin. The world is shining and he is pliant, drifting, a ship on shattered concrete.

"Hello, Castiel," says Sam, evenly. Sam's hand is on Cas's chest, on the bare skin just above his heart.

Cas smiles, loose and dreaming, and Sam's lips curve like a scimitar. There's blood in his teeth.

"Dean," murmurs Cas, and Sam's smile vanishes. The world goes empty and black.

.

"You'll find I'm a considerate host," says Sam, pleasantly, after a while. "I think I know what you like, these days."

Castiel can't answer; his tongue is too thick, the world is spinning a little too much. He is outside; he feels softness underneath him, a spread of velvet as gentle as the sunlight across his flesh. It's been too long since he's felt this golden, this safe.

He lies exposed, immodest, and stares up at the sky. It is a shade of blue he barely recalls.

He thinks blue must be love.

Sam's shadow falls across him - Sam, blocking the light, the shining halo of Sam's silhouette, the sun on Sam's pristine white suit.

(There's something wrong.)

"Dean?" manages Cas, hearing his own slur, the confusion in it (he suspects confusion would be yellow, maybe, or pink) - and he cannot see Sam's face, with all that brightness behind, but he thinks there is a pause (time is red) before he hears, "No, but I've brought you a gift."

He feels hands on his flesh, gentle, rubbing circles down his ribs; he hears a quiet laugh, low and sweet.

He knows this dance.

Castiel closes his eyes, feels the sun on his lids, feels lips trailing down his chest; he is falling to pieces, he is far away, _he knows this dance._

Sam watches. In another life, Cas thinks, he might have found that strange.

.

Castiel dreams of the Impala.

He is in the back seat, sitting straight, hands in his lap, the cuffs of the old familiar trenchcoat draped over his wrists. Two dark heads are in the front seat; the voices are a steady back-and-forth. He cannot quite hear the words; he knows only the tone, the jaded bickering, the secret warmth.

(Is there something wrong?)

When he opens his eyes, he is slumped relaxed in some dusty warehouse corner and the bound young girl in front of him is screaming - the steady shriek rises to almost a rhythm, a cadence as the demons take her ruined eyeballs one by one, take her delicate fingertips, splay her sharp ribs and let the guts fall steaming. Blood stains the faded flowers on her dress.

The screaming stops. Castiel stares dully at the mass of cotton and bleeding meat as the multitude of teeth descend. Everything slides sideways, hazy.

The corpse smells like vomit and shit.

This dream is worse than most.

"Messy," murmurs Sam, disapproving, and his broad, rough fingers drop to Castiel's shoulder, kneading. "I never did get that quite right."

Cas is golden again; pleasure blooms deep within him, slow, bright, reassuring.

He lets his lids drift shut.

.

"It isn't that we were ever close, you understand," explains Sam, patiently. "It's just that I always thought, when I destroyed the world, there'd be someone left to see it."

Cas would answer, but Sam is all the way across the room and there is a hot mouth between Castiel's thighs and he can't think of anything anyway, except that his skull is too heavy and the walls are too jerky and the head of hair bobbing beneath his hands is spiked and oddly matted.

"So it's just you and me," continues Sam, "brother."

(There's something wrong.)

"Dean," gasps Cas, perplexed, because Castiel has never been Sam's brother -

- but then the mouth around him is too close, too wet, too demanding, and he -

"I thought we were past that, Castiel."

- shudders and loses himself and the world is -

"We'll try again."

- white -

.

In the dream, Dean and Sam are grinning. The motel room flickers, lit by the television, irregular and electronic. There is a greasy box of pizza at the foot of the bed.

The demon says, "Wake up, angel," and Castiel does; he is lying in the garden again, draped across some comfortable rock, the sun that Sam creates (can Sam create the sun? There's something -)

"Another gift," murmurs Sam. "This one means something to you, I think?"

Cas blinks, floating, and figures swim before him; he sees the demons, wasted figures and white teeth and dark dark eyes. He sees the man in camouflage, kneeling, forced down, throat exposed and eyes wild.

Distantly, Castiel waits, but no one pulls out the man's eyeballs.

"What shall we do?" Sam's voice is patient but prodding. It takes Castiel a moment to comprehend.

"Cas," chokes the man, whispered and incredulous; Castiel sees curling hair, an unkempt beard. The scent of whiskey nudges at his memory; the feel of a book's pages, delicate beneath his fingers.

_There's something wrong._

Cas closes his eyes again, helpless and dizzy, but Sam insists, "Castiel."

So he says, "Kill him."

"Make it quick," he adds, and he tries to say it clearly but the sun is very hot and he can't think.

He doesn't know what happens next.

.

Sam lays his hand on Cas's chest, and Cas's wings curl and flourish, reborn. Castiel can't move but he can feel them, the unearthly weightlessness, the feathers that do and do not stretch to shadow his shoulders.

"Don't go anywhere," warns Sam, with Sam's sharp smile, and Cas wants to say that he has nowhere to go, but all that comes out is a reckless laugh he is only half-certain is his own.

Sam is the one who holds him up, a strong, linen-clad arm around his ribs. Cas is grateful except that he wants to lie down.

"Soon, Castiel," murmurs Sam, and the world falls apart around them, and everything contracts and expands and - the Earth lies ruined, grey and smoking, blood and bile and tiny wailing lives; Heaven echoes like a vast hall, sterile and eternal and empty; Hell advances, a volcano erupting, fire and iron, twisting and tormented and, Cas wonders suddenly, _lonely?_ -

He sees the demon army laughing, laid out, cavorting across time.

He thinks, absently, of green.

"Are you watching?" Sam whispers, in his ear, and Castiel can only blink slowly, can only let his head fall to rest on Sam's warm white shoulder.

This dream -

Sam breathes, "Let there be light."


End file.
